


An Extraordinary Man: The Deleted Scenes

by groundyonly



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Deleted Scenes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-04-25 23:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4980892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groundyonly/pseuds/groundyonly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thanks so much all, for your kind encouragement and your response to “An Extraordinary Man.” I struggled along with those boys all the way through, as well! It’s one of the hardest tasks, as a writer, to be ruthless with your own work. To cut scenes where they do not forward the plot, or to leave scenes out that change the “flavor” of the end of your work. In this case, I had two scenes that were almost fully written, but which did not work as proper epilogues, and so they were unceremoniously cut out when the boys decided to end the story at the point they did (that’s the other hard task—having no control. The characters decide everything for themselves!). Having said that, there were several points where my thought was, “I wonder what THIS would have looked like,” and so those as well as the two epilogue scenes, will be included in this little series of story-related one shots. If you haven’t read “An Extraordinary Man,” these will make little sense but may intrigue you to read it and comment!</p><p>If there’s something you wanted to know the background of but didn’t see, or wanted to see someone else’s POV, speak up!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 24

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [An Extraordinary Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3323072) by [groundyonly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/groundyonly/pseuds/groundyonly). 



This missing scene takes place in the middle of Chapter 24, after Joubert has been captured by the musketeers, and he finally succumbs to Porthos’s powers of persuasion and divulges Baudin’s plans for when they get back to Paris. What happens when Aramis discovers his son is in danger?

 

* TM * TM * TM *

Porthos flexed his fingers, trying to soothe the throbbing in his knuckles that had been used so effectively on their prisoner. “They’re going after the Dauphin,” he announced.

Aramis, who was kicking dirt onto the last of the dying embers from their fire, snapped his head in Porthos’s direction at the announcement. “What?” he said. His face paled alarmingly.

Porthos frowned but didn’t comment on the change. “Joubert talked,” he explained as Athos came up alongside Aramis to listen. “The Dauphin gets taken on an outing every midday,” he said. “Baudin’s got men ready to capture him and use him as leverage to make the King ease up on the restrictions on the Protestants.”

Aramis knew all about the daily outings. Sometimes he was lucky enough to “happen” to be near the palace when they were about to take place, and he was invited along. Other times, when they weren’t needed at the garrison or out on a mission, he would watch from a discreet distance, unseen, unheard, but seeing and hearing all. 

The marksman’s breathing shallowed, he felt himself trembling. “We’ve got to get there,” he breathed.

“Yeah, I’ve got our friend all trussed up and ready to go.” Again, Porthos frowned. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” Aramis answered, his voice strangled. 

“You know d’Artagnan will stop this, right?”

Aramis nodded, his movements stilted, his voice caught in his throat.

“He won’t let anything happen to ’im,” Porthos persisted. Aramis wasn’t meeting his eye, his own mind caught up in all the worst possibilities. “Aramis. He’s on our side,” the big musketeer reminded him, his face serious, earnest.

Aramis blinked then, looked at his friend. The only thing holding him together right now was the idea that d’Artagnan _was_ closer to the Dauphin than he was, and that perhaps he _could_ avert this disaster. Porthos couldn’t know that his real fear wasn’t about losing the Dauphin—it was about losing _his son._

“I know,” Aramis managed to say. “I’m just—d’Artagnan’s alone. He’ll be outnumbered. He may not be able to stop it on his own. He may—he may be putting himself in even more danger.”

“That’s what a musketeer _does,”_ Porthos replied. “Now let’s just catch up with him, yeah? I’ll get the horses.”

Porthos gave his friend one last concerned look and walked away. Athos spoke softly beside the marksman. “He’s right; d’Artagnan will stop the worst from happening.”

“D’Artagnan is one man,” Aramis said. “Baudin will have many.”

“And the Dauphin is never without protection. You’ve been witness to that yourself.”

“Athos, if I lose my son, even if I can never call him my own publicly, I—”

Athos put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, trying to ground him before his fears took full flight. “D’Artagnan will ensure that doesn’t happen,” he assured the man. “Meantime, it’s several hours before the outing will take place, yes? Let us make haste. Perhaps we can get to the location where this is to happen before the Dauphin even arrives. Then d’Artagnan will be not one, but four. And there is little that can defeat us when we are four acting as one.”

Aramis tried to slow the blood racing through his veins, tried to focus on the truth of what his brother was saying. D’Artagnan would never allow harm to come to the Dauphin, even if it meant his life. And there was still time, if they moved now. There was still time. He let the words play over and over again in his head. There was still time… there was still time…

“All for one,” he breathed.

Athos squeezed Aramis’s shoulder a little tighter. “All for one,” he agreed. “Finish dousing the embers and let’s go. We can’t count on the incompetent Red Guards to back up our young Gascon for very long.”

Aramis clapped his hand on top of Athos’s, blinked several times, and offered his friend a watery smile. “D’Artagnan will save him, Athos. We will all save him.”

It was a statement, and it was a question. Athos thought of d’Artagnan facing this enormous challenge virtually alone, thinking that he had lost his brothers and that he was on his own on this mission, and in his life. It was not just of the Dauphin that he spoke when he replied, “We will save him.”


	2. Epilogue One: The Fate of Baudin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first of the epilogues-- this one tells of the outcome for Antoine Baudin, the King's one-time confidant and childhood friend.

Rochefort paced inside the small cell, secure in the knowledge that the prison guard, one of his own men, would give them the privacy he desired. “You assured me that you could isolate d’Artagnan from the musketeers and discredit the regiment to the King,” he said. “You offered to do this because it suited your purposes, and I agreed because it suited mine. But you have done just the opposite, and now the musketeers are closer to the King—and each other—than ever.”

“D’Artagnan can still be isolated. I have found his weakness. It can be done!”

Rochefort shook his head. “The Queen will champion d’Artagnan at every turn after today; no less so the King. One wrong move and _everyone_ is at risk.”

“Losing my confidence and my friendship has weakened the King,” Baudin declared. “I can take the next step now, Rochefort. Please.” Baudin shook the shackles on his wrists, frustrated and angry and desperate. Rochefort did not reply. “ _Please,_ Rochefort. You need to get me out of here. Juliette could be in danger if people believe that I will talk—”

“Ah, yes, your betrothed,” Rochefort considered. He tsk’d, looking at the raw pain in Baudin’s eyes, absolutely certain he understood the need for a woman who should be with him but was not. “Unfortunately, as soon as she found out you were condemned as a traitor and thrown in the Bastille, she abandoned you and has not been seen, for shame of being associated with you.”

Baudin’s reaction was swift, and fearful. “What have you done with her?”

“Juliette is safely tucked away somewhere that she doesn’t have to hear your name.” He moved behind Baudin. “You, of course, are devastated by the loss of your one true love… and you cannot live with the guilt of what you have done to her.”

In the blink of an eye the Comte had the chain connecting the shackles on Baudin’s own wrists pulled tightly around the prisoner’s neck. The one-time confidant of the King gasped for breath and his eyes widened as he tried to claw toward the chain, trying to release himself from the grip that was cutting off his oxygen, pressing unrelentingly into his throat, leading him to what he was certain was his final moment. He would never have a chance to look into Juliette’s hypnotic eyes again, never be able to hold her soft, white hand in his, never feel her sweet breath dance across his face as they neared each other for a stolen kiss. He was leaving her, he knew. And she would never know that his last thoughts were of her.

When Rochefort felt the struggling man in his hold go limp, he let go. Baudin tumbled to the ground, leaving the Comte to look down at him. “And so you kill yourself before she has to face the shame of your betrayal again,” Rochefort concluded, satisfied. “It’s the honorable thing to do, after all.”

He arranged the body in such a way that the man’s death would be treated without suspicion. It was, for him, a simple task. Then, his eyes without expression, his face without compassion, Rochefort turned away from the failed collaborator, and left the cell.


	3. Epilogue Two: d'Artagnan and Athos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan considers what Baudin's targeting of him means about who he is.

D’Artagnan’s eyes were glassy and full of shame. “I am so weak that he thought he could turn me against the King.” He stared at nothing on the ground in front of him, seeing his past, hearing everything the King, and Baudin, and Rochefort had said to him since he and King Louis had escaped the captors who were intent on making them galley slaves for the Spanish.

Athos saw the self-recrimination and the guilt on d’Artagnan’s face and shook his head. “You’re wrong. You are young, idealistic. Your heart is noble, and pure. He mistook your purity for weakness. And it is because of that, that he felt he could try and turn your head.”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “If he had been with me the day we escaped from LeMaître, he would have known I was not pure. I took pleasure in the publican’s death.” He wiped at the angry, bitter tears that started falling from his eyes as his anger and sorrow burst out of him. “It was personal, Athos. I was _glad_ to help him die. And glad to see him do it.”

Athos looked at his young friend thoughtfully. “You would have been glad to see me die if you had run me through when we first met.” D’Artagnan looked up at him quickly, his eyes wide with horror. Athos just looked back at him, directly. “If I had been guilty of your father’s murder, d’Artagnan, killing me would have been right, regardless of how you felt about it. That is why you hesitated at Louis’s request. Not because you are not loyal, but because what he was offering you did not seem just.”

D’Artagnan shook his head again, his eyes still troubled, and looked down at his hands. Athos clamped his hand on d’Artagnan’s arm, forcing the Gascon to look back to him. “You must see what I am saying. Some of your innocence was taken from you the day you killed Gus, d’Artagnan; not your purity. No matter how personal it was for you, justice was served.” D’Artagnan didn’t answer. “The longer you are in the soldiering business, the more you see things you wish you hadn’t,” Athos continued. “You will harden to the necessary tasks, and will find some… satisfaction in seeing justice served. Sometimes it will be personal, and it will feel like revenge. It will be justice nonetheless. ”

D’Artagnan said nothing, looking at Athos’s hand on arm, using his other hand to wipe away the tears of shame that had started rolling down his hot face. Athos gave his arm a final squeeze and then stood up, ready to bring this whole mess to an end. D’Artagnan’s gravelly voice stopped him.

“Athos.” The musketeer turned back to his young companion, saw now, instead of humiliation, a determination to try and move beyond his doubt. “Thank you.”

Athos looked d’Artagnan in the eye, nodded solemnly, and walked away.  
 


	4. Musketeers to the Rescue!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alternate POV to chapter 25, when the musketeers appear and help d'Artagnan to save the Dauphin!
> 
> Only a couple left after this, if you have other POVs or deleted scenes you wish to see, let me know (I have three left to write based on reader suggestions).

The sound of a gunshot in the distance made Aramis grip the reins of his horse even tighter in sync with the fist squeezing his heart. With a glance toward his companions, he spurred his steed on, knowing Athos and Porthos would do the same.

Only a hundred yards from the clearing where he had seen the Dauphin and his carers and protectors come in the past, he strained to hear anything other than the pounding of the horses’ hooves and his own hard breathing, but he could not until they were almost out of the clearing, at which point he heard what he was almost certain was d’Artagnan’s voice, not shouting out a word, but giving a loud cry of—frustration? Pain? What had happened as a result of that gunshot?

The musketeers burst through the trees, and Aramis took in the scene: the carriage thundering off, with a Red Guard at the reins; various men scattered on the ground, dead, dying, or wounded; and d’Artagnan, on horseback, charging off after the carriage, looking grey and exhausted and barely able to hold himself upright. Aramis’s medical eye instantly zeroed in on a wet, red stain on the Gascon’s left side, though the man himself was paying it no attention, his eyes focused on the retreating coach.

With the others only lengths behind him, Aramis raced to catch up to d’Artagnan, who, although it became apparent he had seen them, had not slowed down for one second. “The Dauphin is in the carriage,” the young man panted, not taking his eyes off the coach. “The Guard driving—he’s in on a plot to kidnap—to kidnap—”

“We’re on it!” Aramis shouted back, when it became clear d’Artagnan could not get more words out, and he urged his horse to run faster, Athos and Porthos joining him, leaving d’Artagnan out of sight and, for the moment, out of mind. 

The carriage was still barrelling away at a dangerous speed with a child inside. Hearing d’Artagnan’s words echoing in his head that the Guard was in on the plot, Aramis drew his harquebus from the side of his saddle. Athos and Porthos roared past him, nodding toward him so he knew that they were aware of what he was about to do and would remain clear. When the pair reached the carriage, Athos reached out to grab the bridle of one of the horses, with Porthos gripping one of the carriage doors, all while their own horses, accustomed to the awkward position of soldiers and the boiling blood of the battlefield, continued to keep pace. 

It was when he saw this all in place that Aramis stopped his horse, took quick but careful aim, and fired his harquebus, hitting the Guard in the neck, and sending the man lurching off the seat and toward the footboard and then off onto the ground. Athos immediately took control of the horses, while Porthos reached into the coach as it slowed down and wrestled with the man inside. When the carriage finally stopped, he quickly overpowered the man and nearly pulled him out through the window. Aramis, for his part, had put away his weapon and hurried to the carriage, where he dismounted and helped the women out.

With Marguerite and the wet nurse in a state, it was natural for Aramis to offer to take the baby, and although Marguerite at first was hesitant, she was reassured when her frightened eyes met the marksman’s, and as he smiled, she handed over the Dauphin and swooned. 

Athos threw a glance at Aramis as he supported Marguerite, then he ushered the women away from the sight of the fallen Guard, while Porthos sneered at the remaining conspirator, holding him fast and making it abundantly clear that there was no escape to be had. 

When they heard a horse approaching, the musketeers tensed, ready to defend the Dauphin and the women once more, but they relaxed when they discovered their new arrival was only d’Artagnan. His steed was moving slowly, as though aware of the precarious state of its rider, and the Gascon himself looked ashen, and unfocused. His eyes scanned the scene almost drunkenly, until they alit on the Dauphin, then up to the man who held him.

“He’s safe,” Aramis told him.

D’Artagnan nodded but said nothing, as though his brain was still trying to register the situation. Then all at once, he grimaced audibly and folded into himself, and his eyes rolled upward as he started to sway in the saddle. But before Aramis could move toward him, he just as suddenly jerked himself upward and came to what appeared to be full awareness. With a last look at the musketeers and the baby, he turned his horse around and raced away, leaving the men he had once called his brothers to deal with the aftermath.

Athos came up beside Aramis and looked down at the baby, who had been fussing but was now settling nicely in the marksman’s arms. “If both guards were part of the plot, that left only d’Artagnan and the driver to defend the Dauphin and the women,” he said.

“Hmf, and the driver’s probably _dead_ ,” Porthos put in, with a harsh jerk of the prisoner on whose shirt he had a firm grip. “So that left the kid on his own.” He turned to the foe he held and glared at him. The man had the sense to look away. “And there’s half a dozen men downed back there.” 

“A good performance, even for a musketeer,” Athos observed.

Aramis blinked as though for the first time absorbing d’Artagnan’s appearance in those last few seconds before he sped away. Then a picture of the spreading red on his doublet flashed in his mind, and the memory of the lad’s obvious discomfort when they first met up came to the fore, making him feel pride for the Gascon’s determination to keep the Dauphin safe, and remorse for not taking even a second to check on him when the danger had passed. “Even better when you consider he was injured,” he said in a soft voice.

Athos frowned. “What?”

“He was injured; I could see blood,” Aramis said, exasperated with himself. “But we were chasing the carriage; I never stopped to think that he probably fought all those men himself and may have needed attention.”

“He didn’t look good,” agreed Porthos.

“And of course he ran away from us,” Athos said now, guilt coming back upon him in waves. D’Artagnan was always bad about telling the others when he was unwell or injured. But with all that had happened, there was no chance at all that he would turn to the musketeers for help, believing he could not, and he would continue to try and face all the danger, and all the pain, alone.

Porthos shook his head. “He was running _to_ the King,” he predicted matter-of-factly. “He stopped the kidnapping and then had to get back to the palace before Baudin notices he’s missing.”

“On his own,” Athos added, bitterness and self-loathing coloring his words. The others understood, hating the idea of their youngest facing such an enemy without them. “It’s time to end this. I don’t know how long d’Artagnan will survive now, if he believes he is still alone.”


	5. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys leave the palace after reconciling.  
> What happens when they find out that d'Artagnan was planning to leave?

Aramis ran his hands through his wavy brown hair and let out a sigh. “I hate to admit it, but the King’s physician did as fine a job as I would have done,” he said. He dipped his hands in the washbasin near d’Artagnan’s bedside and gave them a scrub. “Now what he needs more than anything is rest.”

“He’s certainly earned it,” Athos observed quietly. He looked over at the young Gascon, guilt about everything that had happened still plaguing him. D’Artagnan’s eyelids closed lazily, then opened slowly, closed again and, after a longer period, opened, then closed once more and finally stayed shut. Whatever draught he’d been given was finally working. “Knowing what we know now, it’s unlikely he’s had a good night’s sleep since we left Vassy.”

“How is he?” asked Porthos, not confident with anyone but Aramis’s medical skills.

Aramis’s eyes brightened. “He should recover well. His shoulder remains a problem, and I suspect he still has a sore head, but the wound in his side has been stitched well and should heal cleanly. He should be fine, with time.”

“What was he thinking?” Athos wondered. There was no anger or venom in his tone; rather, a small sadness threaded through his words. The idea that their youngest brother had taken so much on his own shoulders pained him even after their reconciliation, and he couldn’t help but harbor intense anguish that he had caused d’Artagnan so much distress by not understanding that there would never be a time the lad would find it right to betray king and country. 

“He was backed into a corner, and he fought his way out,” Porthos offered. The others looked at him thoughtfully. He shrugged. “He couldn’t tell us, and he couldn’t make us see what was going on. But that didn’t mean he didn’t still have a job to do. So he just did it as best he could.”

Aramis came and put a hand on Porthos’s shoulder. “You are the best of us, my friend,” he said. “I must admit that even _I_ began to have my doubts at one point. And when you were injured...”

But Porthos shook his head. “If he’d thought we were all with him, he’d have kept looking back. It would have been more dangerous for him. Better for all of us that we didn’t know the truth till near the end,” he said, with a compassionate glance at d’Artagnan. “Even though it was harder.”

“We are thankful for your generosity of spirit,” Athos said. “Even if it _is_ undeserved.”

Porthos just shook his head again. “Brothers are brothers,” he said simply.

But in his mind, Athos could only see the fear and hurt on d’Artagnan’s face caused by his own anger and doubt, hear what he knew was the real helpless brokenness of the lad in the chapel in Anet when he told Baudin he was reaching breaking point. _Every encounter with them wounds me._ “I am the one who led you to that moment of doubt, Aramis,” Athos said now. “Had I not been blind to d’Artagnan’s true intent, you would have had no reason to think he was being anything but honorable.”

“Notch’r fault.”

The soft, unexpected voice startled the Inseparables, who looked almost as one back to the bed, where they saw d’Artagnan gazing at them, his eyelids at half-mast, his expression neutral, his reactions dulled by medication and pain, Athos guessed.

“We thought you were asleep,” Athos said to him, as Aramis returned to the young man’s side. His eyes softening, one of the only signs he ever gave of affection, he added, “Eavesdropping is ungentlemanly.”

But d’Artagnan continued as though Athos had not spoken. “’m sorry,” he said, his mouth barely opening.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Aramis said gently, putting a hand to the Gascon’s neck, and then forehead, checking again for any signs of distress or fever. It was a telltale sign to the medic that d’Artagnan didn’t try and resist the fussing.

“Made you question yourselves,” d’Artagnan continued, his voice a mere whisper. His eyes looked at no one, and saw little, the state the medicine had him in making him appear vague and unfocused. “Made you choose... between duty... and me....”

Aramis tried to settle him; clearly the draught sent by the King’s physician was not agreeing with the young man. “It all turned out fine, d’Artag—”

“It was wrong. I should’ve... left like I planned.”

“Left?” Athos echoed. He and Porthos had moved in closer when he started speaking, and now the three musketeers looked at each other, frowning.

“What do you mean, like you planned?” Porthos couldn’t help asking, though it was clear the Gascon was fading again.

“Wasn’t... worthy of being a musketeer...” d’Artagnan breathed, causing the others to choke as their hearts clenched. But it was when he continued that the harshest blow was struck: “...or your brother. Decided when I got back... here... I would just stay... long enough to... find... some place to go...”

Athos couldn’t let him finish. “No!” he declared, his heartbreak complete. Then, gripping the lad’s arm, he said more softly, but just as earnestly, _“No,_ d’Artagnan. Never has a man been more worthy of both titles. It is we— _I_ —who is not worthy.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes moved toward his mentor now, and as his eyes began to drift shut again, he let out a tiny breath of a laugh. “I am... who I am... because of you.” His eyes closed completely. “All of you,” he said.

The trio looked at each other, then Aramis busied himself with d’Artagnan’s blanket, Athos just stared at the young man, and Porthos blinked quickly. When it became evident that this time, d’Artagnan was truly sleeping, the big musketeer let out a small laugh that gave away his emotion, and then declared, “Well, I’m glad I’m not the only one responsible for _that.”_

“Our brother,” Aramis said decisively. It was spoken as though a confirmation to himself, a confirmation to the others. 

Athos and Porthos just nodded. After a moment, Athos said, “We need to let him sleep now. The best thing we can do to help him is leave him alone.”

Aramis and Porthos agreed, then they all settled in to wait until their brother woke up.


	6. Chapter 6- Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aramis asks d'Artagnan about the comment he made about planning to leave the musketeers. Takes place after the return to the garrison, but before d'Artagnan talks with Athos about being used in Baudin's plans to hurt the King.

With a tolerant smile, d’Artagnan gently pushed away the medic’s hand. “It’s fine, Aramis,” he said. He laid his own hand on the bandages covering the healing wound on his side. “It wasn’t that bad to begin with.”

Aramis snorted in good-natured disbelief. “You would say that if your leg was hanging merely by the sinew.”

D’Artagnan shrugged. “You do me an injustice,” he bantered. “I might say otherwise if the bone was sticking out of the flesh.” He pulled on his shirt and began tying the strings. “Go meet the others; I’ll be down soon. Don’t let Porthos eat all the chicken.” But Aramis didn’t move to leave the lad’s quarters. “Go on! I’m capable of dressing myself.”

The Gascon was given pause when he noted the thoughtful look on his friend’s face. “What is it?” he asked carefully. “Is there something wrong? Is it Athos—or Porthos? Are his injuries—?”

Aramis smiled fondly. “It’s always about us; you never think anyone is concerned about _you_ ,” he observed. D’Artagnan blinked, then offered him a quizzical look. Aramis replied with a question. “Were you really going to leave us when Baudin was exposed?”

At this, d’Artagnan looked down at the strings he was still holding, rolled them in between his fingers. He said nothing.

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis persisted. The young musketeer looked up at his brother in arms, then quickly looked back down, concentrated on tying the strings, but his fingers fumbled and he couldn’t finish it. “D’Artagnan,” repeated Aramis softly, “you were acting with honor. You spent months training for a place in the regiment; it was what you wanted more than anything in the world. Why would you consider giving up being a musketeer?”

D’Artagnan abandoned the strings, dropping his hands to his lap. He looked away and at the floor when Aramis sat down beside him on the bed. “You’re still thinking about it,” Aramis realized after a moment. Then he asked, almost hesitantly, “Did we hurt you so much that you cannot bear to be with us any longer?”

D’Artagnan gasped and looked sharply to his friend. “What? _No_!” he protested. “ _No,_ Aramis. It isn’t like that at all! It is _I_ who—” The Gascon dropped his eyes, and though his mouth moved for a second or two longer, no sounds came out. Finally, he managed to whisper, “It is _I_ who hurt _you_. I did terrible, awful things. I made you lose your trust in me. I allowed Porthos to be injured, and Athos—”

“D’Artagnan!” Aramis’s voice took on a commanding tone, something that startled the young musketeer. He was used to that tone coming from Athos, of course, but not from this gentle man. He tried to listen past his distress. “You must listen to me now, and believe me. Losing trust in you was a mistake—one that we made because of our human weakness. Not one that _you_ made by acting as you did. You must not judge yourself on our behavior.”

But d’Artagnan was shaking his head. “If you had had more confidence in me before the trip to Vassy, if I had been able to prevent the King from being captured when we left the tavern that night, you might never have had those misgivings.”

“Stop.” Aramis’s voice returned to its gentle self, and he laid a hand on d’Artagnan’s arm. The young man looked at it, unwilling or unable to lift his eyes to the medic’s face. “You are not infallible, d’Artagnan. And neither are Athos, Porthos, and I. You acted as you had to. We failed to recognize it. And I am afraid that in that failure we have made you doubt yourself.” 

His head hung low, d’Artagnan closed his eyes, the burden and torment of the last few days returning with such force that it nearly stole his breath away. Aramis continued, “You were willing to give up everything in service to the King and the Dauphin, and to protect people you called brother, people whom you did not even believe returned your affection any longer. That makes you the finest of us all, d’Artagnan. Please. Please do not deprive us of your brotherhood. I fear none of us would survive the loss.”

D’Artagnan opened his eyes and turned them, wet with emotions he could not name, for so mixed were they, on his brother. “You would have me remain? Even though Baudin thought me such an easy target to betray you all?”

“You cannot be blamed for the man’s unsound judgment.” He gave d’Artagnan’s arm a light squeeze, then stood up. 

D’Artagnan stood, finished tying his shirt. “Thank you, Aramis,” he said quietly.

“We will never forget what you did for us, brother.”

The last word left d’Artagnan shaky with relief. “I’m going to try, if that’s all right with you,” the young man replied with a weak laugh.

“Of course it is,” Aramis said with an understanding smile. “But if you ever doubt yourself again, we will remind you.” He regarded the lad fondly. “I have a feeling we’ll need to jog your memory often in the next few weeks. And when we do, promise you’ll listen.”

“I trust you; I will.”

As though sensing the young man’s fragility, Aramis said brightly, “I will, however, blame you if Porthos eats all the chicken, and Athos drinks all the wine. So let us get moving, before there is nothing left.”

D’Artagnan smiled broadly, genuinely, and the two headed out of the room.


	7. Chapter 7- Crying in the Chapel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me here, folks. The cruise was amazing, Papua New Guinea is an incredibly beautiful place, and I won another shorter cruise while I was on board!
> 
> This is a different POV to the part of chapter 22 of _An Extraordinary Man,_ where d'Artagnan comes out from underneath the chapel and meets with Baudin. I was asked what d'Artagnan thought when he heard Aramis's signal. It also partially answers Aramis's question earlier in the deleted scenes—was d'Artagnan really going to resign his commission? Had the Inseparables hurt him so badly that he could no longer bear to be near them? As you will see, our young Gascon answered that question with only part of the truth.

* TM * TM * TM *

D'Artagnan climbed up to the body of the church, even after so long down in the basement still trembling with adrenaline of committing a forbidden act. It had taken him half an hour to come up with his shaky but only possibly achievable plan, then another hour to get up the nerve to sneak out of the inn, knowing he was almost always being observed. Half an hour later, he felt fairly confident that no one was watching and made his move. Now, almost an hour after that, he had completed his work and was more than ready to succumb to his physical, and mental, exhaustion.

Sabotaging the bombs, the flints, and the firearms had been cathartic for the young musketeer. For awhile, he could forget about the yawning chasm between him and the Inseparables, and when he smashed the flints, he was certain he did it with more force than necessary. He believed in what he was doing; he knew there was no way he could not act to stop Baudin, and he had to protect the others. But he felt the loss of the musketeers, these men whom he had come to love as brothers, intensely, and whenever he took a deep breath, his heart actually physically hurt.

Closing the secret entrance to the storage area below, d'Artagnan wished he could stop and pray. He didn't do it as often as he knew his mother and father would have wanted him to, he knew. Life had become very busy for him, he reasoned, but, truth be told, he often didn't have the heart now, after the loss of his father and the literal burning of all his ties to Gascony. He still carried his mother's rosary everywhere, but he suspected both his parents would be disappointed that the beads were not as worn as they should be.

For a brief second, he found it ironic that stepping up into a larger space made him feel like he was suffocating. But he had been able to be himself in that little room, and vent some of his frustration and sadness by taking action. Now, finished his work and moving toward the naves, he was going to have to put his mask back on. There was no one he could show his true self to, no one he could share this burden with. He still had an unrelenting, brutal pain in his head, and he was exhausted, more than a little overwhelmed by the enormity of what he was trying to accomplish alone, and it was hard to keep up such a front to everyone, all the time—when, after all, did Baudin ever give him a minute alone? But he would do it, he reminded himself: he would do it, because it would save his friends, and save the Crown. He hoped.

He was in the middle of these conflicted thoughts when the two-toned song of a night bird reached his ear. _Someone is coming,_ he thought automatically. He knew that sound was unique to Aramis; the others had all tried to reproduce it and could not, leaving them with their own distinctive warning signals that never seemed to have the same beautiful lilt to them. Only for a moment, he presumed the signal was to warn _him._ Then reality kicked in, and he remembered that he wasn't working with his brothers—his _former_ brothers—any more. But the signal meant that they were nearby. Were Athos and Porthos being warned about him? The thought stung, but he knew he couldn't discount the possibility.

He heard the door to the chapel open, and footsteps, and he moved into a pew and sat down.

"Moreaux told me he thought he'd seen you come this way. I was worried when I went to check on you and you were gone."

So Baudin had tracked him down again. Aramis had been warning Athos and Porthos about Baudin, not d'Artagnan. The young Gascon wanted to weep with the overpowering pain in his head that spiked when he realized that he couldn't even be alone in a chapel. If not for Aramis, who wasn't even there to help _him,_ his deception would have been exposed. He decided to answer with a multi-layered truth.

"I just needed to be alone."

Baudin sat down beside him. "You sound downhearted. This is a difficult burden for you."

_You have no idea._ "Doing what's right is not easy," d'Artagnan said—again, a truth. "I have been praying about my decisions, hoping God will support the path I have chosen."

D'Artagnan stopped, closed his eyes, tried to make that last statement true, wishing he could form coherent words for a prayer, but for the thousandth time, he failed to come up with anything more eloquent than, _Please, dear Father in Heaven, **please.**_ He _did_ want God to support his decision, but he was certain that, more than that, he wanted Athos, Porthos, and Aramis to support it. Perhaps that was blasphemous, he realized, but he couldn't help it. Knowing that the musketeers were nearby, but not where; knowing that they were looking out for each other, not him—the enormity of the consequences of his choice came crashing down once again and he felt a stab in his chest so sharp and strong that it made him fold in on himself. He felt tears at the corners of his eyes.

Baudin spoke carefully, gently. "It is difficult, travelling with the musketeers. I see the pain on your face when you are with them."

D'Artagnan nodded, then opened his eyes and looked forward into the darkness. Were the Inseparables hearing this conversation? Would it help him to be able to return to their fold? Or would it condemn him further in their eyes? It was too much to endure. "I don't know how much longer I can bear this. Every encounter with them wounds me," he admitted. "I love them, but I do not agree with them, and their judgment pierces me like a sword." _It's true,_ he thought. _I do not agree with their apparent assessment of me. But I cannot blame them for thinking as they do. Would I do the same if I were in their place?_ The two sat quietly for a few moments. Then d'Artagnan said, "Forgive me for worrying you. I couldn't sleep with all the thoughts going through my head." At least that much was true. "I came here to find solace in my Catholic God." _If only He would offer it._

The smile in the other man's voice was evident. "God is God, d'Artagnan. It is man who tries to define Him. I do not begrudge people's choice of religion. Only their insistence on others agreeing with them." Kindly, Baudin then asked, "Did He help you?"

D'Artagnan thought of how he had been able to complete the sabotage work below the chapel, and how he had been able to get out from the room before he was discovered—and even how Aramis's signal had helped him avoid being caught in a compromising position. "I think so," he answered truthfully. "At least, I feel I can sleep more soundly now."

"Then you are blessed, indeed."

D'Artagnan was done masquerading for the night. He was exhausted, overwhelmed, and in pain. Whatever he had accomplished tonight would become evident later. For now, he knew he needed to escape this crushing burden of pretence before he went mad. "I'm going back now. I'm tired and my head aches."

"I will see you back. And I will ask Allain to prepare another draught for your pain."

"I will be grateful," he answered honestly.

The young man looked furtively for any sign of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis as they left the chapel, but he could see none. And so heartbroken and defeated was he that evening, that when Baudin suggested they leave early in the morning without the company of the musketeers, d'Artagnan agreed. He knew he would never truly be one with them again; he might as well start getting used to it now.

* TM * TM * TM *

Please let me know your thoughts here. Unless someone has a compelling request for another scene, this will be the last of the deleted/ different POV scenes to complement "An Extraordinary Man." I have another story that's waiting to be told, and another one after that. But if there's a very intriguing question, I'll reconsider. I was only going to do 2 extra scenes in the first place! All feedback gratefully accepted. :)

LJG


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